


Atlas Hands

by elvish



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4010920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvish/pseuds/elvish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“AU where R never woke up in time and has to deal with the death of all his friends, but Enjolras is haunting him and is torn between shouting at him to get a grip on himself and wanting to hold him in his arms once more because ghosts can’t touch anything.” Dumb little drabble thing I did a long time ago. Like two years ago. Like over two years ago. Work titled after "Atlas Hands" by Benjamin Francis Leftwich</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atlas Hands

The first few days, Grantaire would wake up at the parlor table, cradling a bottle with 5 or so scattered around him haphazardly. He would feel like utter shit, with a relentless headache and an aching neck. Mindlessly, he’d change clothes, clamber out the door and walk down the street to the Cafe Musain.  
Once there, he was confused. He was usually the last to arrive to their meetings.

Then he would see the debris. He would see the bloodstains. He would smell the copper, the last remains of gun smoke.

In shock, he would autopilot upstairs.

Finally, he would remember.

Grantaire would walk to the window, run his hand over the dark red stain. Oddly enough, only there would he find some comfort. Quickly, he found himself spiraling ever downward. 

Grantaire had nowhere to go. He had no one to talk to. Spending his days in the abandoned Cafe, he grew ever closer to absinthe and found partial comfort in painting his old friends (before realizing they were all wrong and nothing could ever capture them quite right, and promptly trashing them). He spoke to himself so he wouldn’t feel lonely. Sometimes, he swore he heard voices speaking back.

After a month or so, long after Grantaire stopped counting the days, he felt himself slowing down. He became much more lethargic than usual. Still, he dragged himself to the Musain. 

Near delirious, he collapsed at the top of the stairs. He crawled to where Enjolras had died, running his hand over the fading, reddened stain.  
Grantaire slid down the wall, feeling his eyes slowly fall shut. His breathing slowed and his body stilled.  
Very faintly and forcefully came a small and familiar,  
“Grantaire.”  
After no immediate response, the voice grew more aggressive.  
“Grantaire! Listen to me!”  
His eyes flew open and slowly focused on the golden figure crouched in front of him.  
“Enjolras?”  
“Stop wallowing.” His trademark annoyance was ever present.

This gifted the specter with a long-forgotten smile.  
Enjolras reached forward to grab Grantaire’s hand. Confused when it simply fell through, he tried again. Visibly upset, Enjolras set his hands back onto his lap.  
“I am tired of your self-pity. You are the only one of us who is still breathing. Make that your advantage.”

“Ever the believer,” Grantaire chuckled dryly. “But my dear Apollo, I have nothing left to live for.”


End file.
